Chapter 17 Dom
DOM
“What do you mean, he’s got nothing?”
I pace the entirety of my downstairs floor while Turi speaks through the phone.
Eduardo’s here too, setting up the finishing touches for Annetta’s surprise, and she’s upstairs crying in the shower.
If I thought a little bit of dick magic would cure her grief, I was quickly enlightened when she snuck off to shower and quietly sob like she has every other morning.
I’d hope a call to Turi about the hitman would deliver some good news, but I should have known better.
Eduardo gathers up his tools, waves, looks longingly at the cornetti Annetta made yesterday, and leaves.
“If he had something to tell us, he would have,” Turi says dryly. “He got an order and a payment, and he didn’t ask any questions.”
“So what now?”
“I’m negotiating with Ottavio now.” Turi says his father’s name like it’s a curse.
“He is adamant that we can’t have more instability in the Family.
We have to do this right. Barbara’s going to Florida this week to identify a loyal replacement for the Chiarelli Don, and Marisol and Worm are working on digging up some dirt. ”
“Dirt? How much more do we need? How many times have they tried killing my wife now?”
I wish I had something heavy and don-shaped to punch as Turi pauses on the other end of the line.
“Your wife?” he says with an annoying note of amusement.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’m going to drive down there and strangle you with my bare hands.”
“I have everything in motion now. The Chiarellis won’t be a threat to your wife for long.”
Annetta’s light footsteps sound at the top of the stairs.
“Goodbye, Turi.”
He exhales a laugh as I hang up.
Annetta’s eyes grow wide as she comes around the bend and sees what I have laid out for her.
She stops at the edge of the kitchen, taking in the sight of our kitchen turned arsenal.
I figured if I couldn’t bring her to the gun range, I’d bring the gun range to her.
After my call with Turi, I couldn’t be more glad.
Airsoft, BB guns, gel pistols, and plastic aiming attachments are scattered all over the kitchen island. It’s not a perfect solution, but if she can’t practice with real bullets, then a variety of weapons should give her a comfortable understanding of how to shoot if the time comes.
She approaches the guns like they’re a nest of live snakes. “This is all for me?”
I come up behind her, circling my arm around her waist, and she leans her head back against my chest like we’ve done this a hundred times before. My heart lurches against my ribs.
“You’re still going to teach me to fight, too?” she asks.
“Eduardo’s bringing over smaller weights and a treadmill today.” I kiss the top of her head. “We’ll start tomorrow. Those fleas won’t know what hit ‘em.”
She slaps my arm, and I laugh.
“Pick one out and let’s see what you can do, Miss I Can Shoot a Gun.”
Her mom’s old engagement band glints off her fingers as she lifts a lightweight airsoft off the table and faces the end of the hallway where Eduardo and I set up a hazardous, homemade gun range made of plywood, nets, and paper targets shaped like men.
I hadn’t realized that I expected she’d be timid about this, or that she might back out when faced with the reality of this training, until I’m surprised by the effortless way she raises her gun and aims it down the hallway. Something stirs inside me at the sight of her looking so sure of herself.
She pulls the trigger, and the airsoft pellet tears through the paper target and hits the plywood behind with a plonk.
Her shot went wide, and her stance and grip could use a little work, but she did better than most people do on their first time. Déjà vu passes over me as I think to myself what a good hunting partner she’d be.
She squints down the hallway and frowns. “That was bad.”
“It was your first try.”
I step behind her and nudge her right foot a little wider. It’s not strictly necessary, but I press my chest against her back to fix her grip.
“Remember,” I murmur, my mouth brushing against her hair, sweet from her almond shampoo. “Trigger hand grips loose, and your support hand grips tight.”
She pushes her back against me, and I rest my hands on her hips as she shoots again.
“Good. While I’m gone, you’ll do just that, but about a thousand more times. Start up close and then try again with more distance as you hit the target consistently.”
“Are you leaving now?” She shoots again, truer this time.
Blood rushes to my dick. Is this the Annetta that’s been hiding underneath her obedient princess mask all this time? A coolly competent sharp shooter? And—I think back to last night—a hellcat in the bedroom?
“Yeah. As soon as Eduardo gets back, I’m heading out.” I pull her tighter against me, and she shoots again, missing the hallway entirely and embedding in the drywall. I laugh.
“You’re distracting me.” She doesn’t sound that upset.
I lower my head to the crook of her neck and kiss the delicate skin there. “Maybe you need a few distractions.”
She gasps as I suck at her neck. “You’re a lot more than a distraction, Dom.”
I chuckle against her neck. My hands drift lower, playing with the sliver of exposed skin just above her workout shorts.
“That’s exactly what I am.”
She lowers her gun, and I brush my fingertips along the underside of her arm in a light suggestion to keep her arms raised.
“That’s what you want to be?” she asks.
“It’s what I’m good at.”
She gives a frustrated exhale. “Alright.” She spreads her legs a little wider and shoots off another pellet. It hits the dead center of the paper man’s heart, and my hips jut forward. “Then distract me.”
The failure of the hitman, of the Chiarellis, of her mom’s engagement ring on her hand as she fires off another round—it all slips out of my mind as I reach into her leggings—she’s not wearing panties—and slide my fingers against her already wet clit.
Desire slams into me, urging me to pump my fingers inside her, skip to the good stuff.
Instead, I circle her clit and soak in the feeling of her body melting against mine.
“Arms straight,” I murmur into her ear.
She makes a valiant effort to straighten her arms and shoots.
“Put a finger in me,” she urges in a delicious demand.
I might be more tempted to push back and make her wait, but Eduardo should be back soon, and we’re in open sight of the elevator, so I do what she says.
I slide two fingers down her slick pussy, but when I push them inside her, I take my time.
The breathy little moans she makes and the way she’s fighting to keep control of her own arousal are driving me wild, but I force myself to be patient.
This is what I’m good for—it’s what she’s asked for.
There’ll be time for more tonight. And tomorrow, and the day after that, even though I said we’d take this day by day.
Her inner walls contract around my fingers as I pump in and out of her.
She’s so tight, even just for my fingers, and it stirs the memory of that same tightness squeezing my cock.
She rocks against my hand, her arms trembling from a mixture of arousal or fatigue, and rolls her head against my chest, her eyes shuttering closed.
“Keep shooting,” I tell her.
Her head jerks up, and she unloads the rest of the magazine in several rapid-fire shots before she tosses the gun to the kitchen island.
“I want you inside me, Dom. All of you. Now.”
I don’t think—I lift her into the air by her waist as I keep up the pace of my thrusting with my free hand.
I’m too big to fuck her standing, so I bring her to the couch.
She understands my intent and holds onto the couch arm to anchor herself, her belly across the couch arm, and her legs dangling in the open air.
I slip her shorts and underwear off to her ankles.
We’re looking directly down the foyer to the elevators now, and I’ll be damned if Eduardo gets an eyeful of her like this.
I snap my belt open and pull out my cock.
Underneath my palm, her back tenses.
“Start slow,” she says, a touch of worry edging her voice and twisting my heart.
“Whatever you say.” I bend down to kiss the small of her back, and then—fuck it—I drop all the way to my knees and spread her thighs apart to lick up her pussy. She’s already soaking wet, but after a few more licks, she’s dripping. I lap up to her asshole and stand, fisting my cock at the base.
I could come right now, and judging by the way she was clenching around my fingers earlier, she’s not far off.
Grinning like a madman, I feed the head of my cock into her.
We groan in unison.
“You’re so big, Dom,” she says, her voice muffled by the couch cushions. “God, you feel so good.”
I’m hypnotized by the sight of her pussy taking every slow inch I give her, and the feel of her strangling my cock in her warm, wet heat in my own little slice of heaven.
“Yeah?” I tease, just because I can’t help myself. “What do you like about it so much?”
I seat myself fully inside her and pull back out to set a slow rhythm.
“I like feeling how safe I am with you,” she says. “I like feeling this close to you.”
She comes into focus—her golden hair splayed over her face, and the smooth arc of her back.
I’m old enough to know better, but the marriage, her cooking, and the warmth in her laughter have me spilling my guts.
“You’ll always be safe with me,” I say, winding a hand around her hips to strum against her clit.
She jerks into my hands and clenches so hard around me, I nearly finish inside her.
“I know, Dom, I know,” she whines against the cushion. “You’re a good husband.”
Fuck. I grit my teeth and fight the surge of electricity riding down my spine.
Then she says, “You’re so good to me.”
I’m spent.
I thrust into her as a wave of pleasure folds me on top of her, a single thread of consciousness the only thing keeping me from entirely crushing her.
I don’t stop circling her clit, and in seconds, she’s crying out underneath me as we come together.
Satisfaction fills every atom of my being at the total pleasure of coming into a woman I’ve made finish with my hands and my body.
She sighs. “That was perfect.”
Her body is completely boneless against the couch.
I hesitate. But I’ve never been a man of half measures, so I tell her, “You’re perfect.”
A little velvet box rests against my thigh as I drive to my last stop for the night.
You’re so good to me.
I called her perfect. And it’s the way she was glowing after the praise that has me adjusting myself now as I wait at a stoplight.
When she moved in, I thought she’d be a little broken birdie I’d have to take care of. She’d stay scared and timid, and I’d protect her, but our relationship would end there.
The confident Annetta who fills up the penthouse with her flowers and bread and demands I chase her and fuck her and train her?
That version of her is dangerous.
I’m already forgetting what this marriage is supposed to be.
I told her we’d take it day by day, but I’ve spent my entire evening slipping into daydreams of what she’ll be like in five, ten years.
I imagine her and me in bed on a lazy Sunday afternoon, or her standing over me with that look of intense desire as she tells me what to do in her sweet, bell-chime voice.
She wants protection, control, and maybe a little fun. I can give her all those things, but eventually, she’ll want more—she deserves more.
I pull up to the address Turi gave me and peer through the windshield. Even in the dark, I can see this place is a shithole. Sure, I’ve learned that looks can be deceiving, but I can’t imagine anyone living like a king inside this cardboard-colored apartment tower.
In either case, I pat my gun and knife and jump out of the SUV. The two smokers on the front steps of the building take one look at me as I stride past and beat it.
Smart.
I’m breathing through my mouth as I pass through piss-stained hallways that reek of weed and sewage until I get to the door I’m looking for—lucky number 111.
I rap on the door and wait.
Several locks click on the other side of the wood, and the door cracks open just to the length that the thin door chain will allow.
A sallow twenty-something-year-old man looks out at me.
His eyes widen as he takes in my appearance, and I can tell he’s fighting the urge to slam the door in my face.
He must understand that it wouldn’t help him, because he keeps it open.
I grin. I’d lean against the doorway, but I’m not touching anything in this hellhole that I don’t have to.
“You know who I am?”
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “No, sir.”
His shirt, at least, is clean. I can make out the fast-food uniform logo stitched onto his chest through the crack in the door.
“It’s probably best you don’t, but you should let me in anyway.”
Another bob of his throat. “Yes, sir.”
He shuts the door. The chain lock jangles against the back of the door, and then it swings open.
“You just move in?” I ask as I step into his apartment.
Despite the disrepair outside, the inside of his apartment is nearly empty and about as clean as it could be in a place like this.
A lone cup of instant ramen sits on his kitchen counter, a wispy tendril of steam curling out.
The only pieces of furniture in the entire studio apartment are a metal fold-out chair, a plastic grey table, and a neatly folded pile of blankets next to a stained foam mattress.
“No, sir.”
My first thought is that he’s an addict, but he doesn’t have a bong or needles anywhere. And anyway, he’s as alert as a rabbit as he watches me from the kitchen.
Best to get this over with before I start feeling bad for the kid.
“Does the name Serafina mean anything to you?” I hate that I still have to say her name when that’s not my wife’s name.
“Y-you mean Mrs. Lombardi?”
And just like that, I like the kid a little better. I’m glad he’s scared shitless—I won’t have to do anything painful to him tonight.
“Yeah. Mrs. Lombardi. You owe her something, don’t you, Neil?”
“S-she said, she said it’d be okay!” His face is already shiny with sweat. “She was gonna get me a piano. I told her I can’t get the money back from my landlord.”
A gifted piano? That seems like something my sweet little wife would do. I’ll do her one even better.
“I don’t really give a shit. You figure out a way to get her back that money, or when I come back later this week, I’ll cut off a finger.”
He goes completely pale, pressing his stiff body against his refrigerator.
“But I’m a pianist,” he whispers.
I lean in, meeting his eyes until he drops his gaze down to my boots.
“Sounds to me like you have a pretty good incentive then.”